


Come Back To Me

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Trust, M/M, Serious Injuries, loss of self
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-03-29 23:58:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13938210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Neal is compromised after an operation goes horrendously wrong. It sends the CI spiraling down to another place far out of Peter’s reach. In the aftermath, Peter and Mozzie do everything in their power to rescue him and bring him back from the dark side.





	1. Chapter 1

It had happened in the blink of an eye. Peter and Jones had been standing in the shadows just beyond a two-story warehouse in Queens. Beside them was a battle-ready ATF commander listening to a verbal exchange going on inside the corrugated steel walls of the building. The arm of the government that oversaw the misuse and interstate trafficking of alcohol, tobacco, and firearms had been hot on the trail of an arms smuggler. After they had ferreted out the courier's name, they wanted more—they wanted to know his foreign source, and they wanted to know exactly how the shipments were making it through customs. The good guys needed to plug a very big hole, and that was why Neal was inside the structure at that very moment.

A month earlier, a formidable government representative with lots of political clout had visited the FBI office in New York. He had arrived with a specific demand that, like all manipulative bureaucrats, he had cleverly cloaked as a request. A con man was needed to sell himself as an intermediary looking to purchase a cache of illegal weaponry for an unnamed client. The man from Washington had a definite person in mind for that task.

Neal Caffrey was not exactly an unknown entity to the Federal government. His reputation was well-established in their criminal annuls, and since he was now under their thumb, they could call the shots. Of course, Peter had been reluctant to place his CI in such a volatile and dangerous scenario, but the FBI agent was low man on the totem-pole and his worried objections had been quickly overridden.

"The FBI will provide you with a bullet-proof back story," Peter had reassured Neal. "We'll always be nearby if it all goes pear-shaped. Just finagle the intel and then get the hell out of Dodge. I don't want you anywhere near the scene when Armageddon happens."

"Stop worrying, Peter. I've got this," Neal said as he gave his handler a fond smile.

FBI agent and CI had become close during the last three and a half years—much closer than anyone suspected. During the early days of the convict's parole on the anklet, it had, indeed, been a rocky road with many ups and downs. There had been much mistrust and deception, and quite often Neal's antics had almost landed him back in prison. However, both men were stubborn and tenacious. Each was determined to make this work, and, eventually, they found a way to make that happen. Perhaps that outcome was the inevitable result of standing beside a besieged friend as he traveled down the road to hell.

Peter had put the pieces back together again after Neal watched the love of his life go up in flames on a tarmac by the Hudson. A year later, Neal had provided beer and empathy when Elizabeth, Peter's wife, decided that a prestigious job at the National Gallery of Art in the nation's capital was more important than either her New York catering business or her husband.

Comfort can be provided in a myriad of different ways—it's not a one-size fits all concept. For the two men in this relationship, a warm, consoling arm slung around a shoulder at a vulnerable moment can sometimes lead to more intense emotions and actions. Loving Neal was not hard for Peter, and the icing on the cake was that the beautiful young man reciprocated those deep feelings.

Of course, they kept their affair on the downlow. If the fact was unearthed, Peter would be accused of using his power over his charge as coercion. Although he could lose his job, Neal would be returned to prison to serve out the remainder of his sentence. Both men knew they had to be careful as well as patient. There was a light at the end of the tunnel. When Neal had fulfilled the terms of his parole, he and Peter would be free to love whomever they wanted without fear of repercussions from the intrusive government system.

~~~~~~~~~~

Right now, however, the two partners were part of an operation in a New York borough. Thanks to some clever gadgets camouflaged on Neal's person, the awaiting assault team in an industrial section of Queens had both eyes and ears on the scene. When the con man had first entered the building for the dangerous meet and greet, he had carefully turned to view the interior of the warehouse. That had enabled the ATF commander to see a small posse of six men who had accompanied the arms merchant standing around alertly. There was going to be a fire fight for sure because those tough thugs were not going to go down easy. Of course, the assault team would hold off a breach until Caffrey was well out of harm's way.

"Your guy is really good," the ATF team leader marveled as he listened to the disembodied voices in the warehouse. "Those two dudes sound like a couple of old battle veterans exchanging war stories. As soon as Caffrey and this perp work out the method of payment and your boy gets a name, we're golden. Since there's only one means of entry into the building, we'll need to come at them a bit differently after Caffrey leaves. I've got my guys quietly scaling the roof, and they'll drop down from above at that point," the team leader informed Peter.

However, no matter how comfortable the arms smuggler seemed to be at the moment, he wasn't stupid. He had the foresight to be prudent and prepared. After all, this wasn't his first rodeo, so he had backup failsafe strategies in place. One of those measures was pressure plates on the flat roof of the building. If triggered by hostile invaders, a chain reaction would occur that led to an incinerating inferno that would obliterate incriminating evidence. Of course, that extreme measure was never supposed to happen while he and his bodyguards were still inside.

But, that is exactly what did happen as an advancing black-clad ninja stepped on a piece of metal which tripped a circuit. The resulting explosion, fed by cases of ammunition stored on the second floor, blew the entire roof off the structure causing unsuspecting broken bodies to fly through the air like ragdolls. 

Peter stood frozen in disbelief for a nanosecond before he was off and running with Jones on his heels. Right now, the fire was consuming the second story of the warehouse, but it wouldn't be long before the oxygen in the air would feed its frenzy, enabling it to engulf the entire building. Peter plowed through a door now hanging on twisted hinges and scanned the interior as best he could through a gray haze of smoke. Some structural beams had buckled, and many had fallen. He heard a few moans and some anemic coughing from men strewn around the area. He ignored every last victim until he located Neal among the debris.

The young man lay on his back with his eyes closed. He was unresponsive when Peter yelled his name in anguish. A jagged cut on his temple was bleeding heavily, and a bulky ceiling support beam was across his chest pinning him in place. Jones was younger than Peter and had the strength of a bull, so he quickly heaved the constraining metal away so that he and Peter could get a grip on Neal's torso and drag him from sudden death. When they had managed to get him away to cleansing outside air, a lethal backdraft caused the first story of the building to go off like a Roman candle.

Peter frantically felt for a pulse on the side of Neal’s throat, and swayed in relief when he finally found it. Still unresponsive, the young man was loose-limbed and pale. It was quick-thinking Jones who made sure that the CI’s airway was open as he put pressure on the head wound with the sleeve of his jacket. The incessant wail of sirens was finally heard in the distance. A grim-faced ATF commander walked over slowly as if in a trance and stared down at Neal.

“I hope he makes it, Burke. I really do,” he said softly. “Caffrey might be the only one who actually survived this clusterfuck.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Huge fire-fighting rigs from nearby stationhouses were soon arriving on the scene as well as multiple ambulances with eager and competent EMTs spilling out from the back doors. The first responders would find there was only one patient for them to treat. Unfortunately, it would be a search and recovery operation after the fire was extinguished to locate the charred and broken bodies of the other casualties.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter and Jones sat for hours enduring the discomfort of hard plastic chairs in a nearby emergency room.

“They’ve been working on him for a really long time,” Peter said fearfully.

Jones merely nodded his head in agreement and kept silent.

“Maybe I made things worse when I dragged him out of that warehouse,” Peter murmured, trying to second-guess his actions. “It’s possible that he had a broken neck or back, and moving him roughly like that—well, it could have damaged his spinal cord. By jostling him, I may actually have caused him to become paralyzed.”

“Peter,” Jones said as he looked at his boss sternly, “there wasn’t any other alternative. You did what was necessary at the time in order to save Neal’s life.”

“But still ….” Peter trailed off, now at a loss for words.

Nothing else was said as the hours dragged on and endless cups of bitter coffee caused stomachs to roil in acidic protest. Near sunup, an anxious bespectacled little man appeared as if by magic, and Peter wondered how Mozzie had heard the news.

“How is he? Have you heard anything?” Neal’s longtime friend demanded to know.

Peter just shook his head and couldn’t look the newcomer in the eye.

“You know, Suit,” Mozzie said bitterly, “Neal and I did just fine on our own. During all those years before you got your hooks into him, not one of Neal’s marks tried to blow him up!”

“Cool it, little man,” Jones said menacingly. “Now is definitely not the time for that crap.”

Jones was the recipient of a disdainful snort and a narrow-eyed glare. However, Mozzie did manage to keep quiet as he joined the vigil.

~~~~~~~~~~

Finally, a young nurse in blue scrubs found the three men and led them to a small, secluded room where a trauma physician and another doctor waited patiently. The ER clinician was made aware that Peter was Neal’s power of attorney for related health care issues. After the FBI agent had introduced Mozzie and Jones, he made it plain that both men could be privy to confidential medical information.

The trauma surgeon spoke first. “After Mr. Caffrey arrived in our emergency room, we performed an extensive examination to determine the nature and extent of his injuries. We found that he had multiple lacerations and contusions to his body, and x-rays confirmed our suspicions that he had sustained several broken ribs. Those breaks are simple fractures with good bone alignment, so they should heal quite nicely without further intervention on our part.

We also performed other, more definitive tests to rule out any damage to his organs or the presence of internal bleeding. We found nothing, which is certainly a good thing. However, a very serious concern at this point is the trauma to his head which has rendered him non-responsive. Perhaps, at this time, my colleague, Dr. Tanner, can take up the narrative. He’s the neurosurgeon whom I called in to consult.”

Dr. Tanner was a tad past middle-age with a full head of thick gray hair, kind blue eyes, and a quiet, unpretentious demeanor. Peter, in his nervous state of mind, thought the man looked exactly like a doctor should look—a caring “Marcus Welby” doppelganger from another era who had somehow been transported into the new millennium. After giving each man a firm handshake, this sympathetic physician invited everyone to sit down for the upcoming discussion.

He began by speaking softly but clearly. “I, too, examined Mr. Caffrey and I ordered my own extensive testing that included an initial CAT Scan of his skull, and then a more definitive MRI of his brain. It’s very clear from those results that this patient has sustained significant and dangerous trauma to those areas.”

“So, he suffered a really bad concussion?” Peter ventured a guess.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that,” Tanner replied. “Mr. Caffrey has sustained a traumatic intracranial brain injury. To put it in simple terms, a traumatic brain injury is generally the result of a sudden, violent blow or jolt to the head. The brain is then on a collision course with the bones that make up the skull. Sometimes that causes bruising or bleeding, and there is always the possibility that nerve fibers have been stretched to the point of shearing.”

“How bad is Neal’s brain injury, Doctor?” Mozzie asked when Peter couldn’t seem to find his voice.

“It’s quite difficult to give you a prognosis at this time,” Tanner answered patiently. “In mild cases, we would expect to see a patient manifest temporary confusion and headache. In Neal’s case, the injury seems to be much more serious resulting in unconsciousness. We’ve been monitoring him, and we’ve noted that there is some worrisome swelling in his brain, although we haven’t seen any evidence of actual bleeding. We are being cautious, however, and have placed him in a medically-induced coma for the time being. We will be administering some very potent diuretics to combat the edema in his brain. After he has had a chance to stabilize, we’ll reduce the sedation and, hopefully, he’ll wake up.”

“So, you won’t know if there is any permanent brain damage until that happens?” Mozzie pushed.

“I’m going to be candid with you, gentlemen. I’m sure that you all want to know the truth, no matter how difficult that may be to hear. We can certainly hold out hope for a good outcome, but we must also be prepared for a worst-case scenario. Neal could wake up and have residual impairments both physically as well as cognitively. Or… there is the possibility that he may never wake up from this. He could remain comatose in an indefinite vegetative state.”


	2. Chapter 2

The doctor’s words rocked Peter’s world. Whatever he expected to hear, it wasn’t this! He stood on shaky legs and was determined to somehow make it to the Intensive Care Unit under his own power to see Neal. Mozzie was right by his side, although Jones begged off.

“I’m going to make a quick stop home for a shower and change of clothes,” he told Peter. “Then I’ll go to the Bureau and bring Hughes up to speed and tell him you’ll keep us in the loop.”

“Right, right,” Peter murmured absently. “That’s good thinking, Jones.”

When Neal’s two remaining, devoted friends found their way through the hospital’s labyrinth of corridors, they stopped short outside the glass walls of Neal’s cubicle. It seemed as if both were reluctant to view the young man up close.

“C’mon, Suit, we need to cowboy up. We can do this,” Mozzie finally said softly as he gave Peter’s lower back a small shove.

Instead of looking like a cadaver, Neal looked like Neal—just a peaceful and less animated version of himself. There was a small butterfly closure nestled near his hairline, but the contusions and lacerations which the doctor had mentioned were thankfully hidden beneath a thin, blue hospital gown. Peter and Mozzie gingerly sat down in chairs beside the bed.

“You can touch him if you want, Peter,” Mozzie murmured. “It’s not as if I don’t know that the two of you are lovers, so I think that Neal would probably welcome feeling your hand in his right now.”

Peter startled and did a pretty good impression of a deer caught in the headlights.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked, Suit,” Mozzie snorted. “I figured it out a long time ago, but your secret is safe with me. It’s as secure as being locked away in Fort Knox, although that may not be the best analogy. Neal and I brainstormed a way to crack that nut years ago.”

“And you’re okay with it—with us?” Peter asked disbelievingly.

“Well, it did take some angst-filled soul-searching for me to come to grips with the sheer travesty of the situation, but I suppose Neal could have done a lot worse.”

“I do have feelings for him, you know,” Peter said plaintively. “As outlandish as you think that concept is, Mozzie, I do love him very much and he loves me.”

The little bald man stared into the FBI agent’s eyes. “When Neal loves, Peter, it's with a focused intensity. He makes you feel as if you are the most important person in the world because that is truly what he believes. It’s a pure, untainted form of worship on his part. You are, indeed, a very lucky man.”

“I know that, Moz, and Neal loves you in his own way as well. You two have a long history, and you have always been a treasured good friend. I hope you know how much Neal appreciates that special bond that you share.”

Mozzie snorted. “That bond must be really strong for me to overcome my phobia of hospitals and place myself smack dab in the middle of a petri dish fulminating with malicious little germs.”

Peter finally reached out and took Neal’s slack hand in his as he fought back tears that threatened to destroy his composure.

“You have to come back to me, Neal,” he whispered. “We have a lot more living to do before we’re done.”

“He’s _definitely_ not done yet,” Mozzie stated emphatically. “The great Neal Caffrey cannot end like this with a whimper. He’s going to rise again like Lazarus from the crypt. You’ll see, Peter. He’ll be even better than before. You just have to have faith and believe in him.”

Peter sighed. “You know, Moz, ‘denial’ is more than just a river in Egypt. You and I need to face facts and be prepared just as that doctor advised.”

“Negative energy is a bad thing, Suit!” Mozzie grumbled. “Positive vibes are cleansing and healing. You don’t have to be a shaman to figure that out. Now keep the faith, Peter, or hit the road. I’m hanging in for the duration or until I acquire a fatal hospital-borne microbe and wind up being Neal’s roommate!”

A chastised Peter grew silent and sat beside Mozzie until dusk descended outside the hospital window. After almost twenty-four hours without sleep, Peter found himself nodding off until he felt Mozzie nudge his arm.

“Get out of here before you suffer your own head trauma when you fall out of that chair and hit the floor,” the bald man advised. “Neal shouldn’t be alone if he wakes up and is confused, so I’ll stay with him. Come back tomorrow after you do your ‘Elliot Ness’ thing at the Bureau. I’ll call you if anything happens.”

“Swear, Mozzie, that you’ll call no matter what happens, either good or bad,” Peter pleaded. “Hell, just call me to tell me there’s no change. I’ll be back tomorrow as soon as I can.”

Mozzie gave Peter a smart salute and shooed him out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~

So, for the next seven days, someone always steadfastly remained at Neal’s bedside. Most of the time it was either Peter or Mozzie, but others did their own tours of bedsitting. June, Cindy, Jones, Diana, and even Reese Hughes put in their time in the small claustrophobic space. Neal, however, remained oblivious to the steady parade of well-meaning and hopeful visitors.

At the end of the week, the doctors who were monitoring the swelling in Neal’s brain decided that the ominous danger had passed, and the intravenous diuretics were discontinued. They also began weaning him off the sedatives. Now there was another tense vigil to watch for signs that Neal was waking up from his nether world. It just didn’t happen.

By week three, a social worker informed Peter that Neal was medically stable and could be discharged from the hospital. His next temporary home would be an urban rehab center that specialized in traumatic brain injury patients. Peter accompanied a sleeping Neal in the transport ambulance to a place that looked and smelled like a nursing home. Suddenly, the grieving FBI agent felt incredibly depressed even though he was assured that his lover would be getting intense physical therapy as well as treatment from neurological specialists who were determined to pull him out of the darkness into the light.

Mozzie was still a constant, but Peter’s job did not afford him the privilege of staying away from his responsibilities at the FBI for very long. The world kept turning and criminals kept committing crimes that warranted his attention. He still tried to visit Neal each day, if only for an hour before returning to his townhome for a few hours of sleep. Sometimes, Peter was ashamed of himself for feeling like one of those little rodents who jogged on a wheel in their cages—running and running but going nowhere.

Weekends were sacrosanct, however. That was Peter’s time to spend with Neal, so the Bureau and its problems could crash and burn for all he cared. Whenever the FBI agent arrived at the rehab center, the young con man was always meticulously groomed.  June had arranged for her own stylist to come in and trim his hair, and she also brought some of his wardrobe from his loft so that Neal could be stylishly dressed in his own clothes during the day.

Rehab was intense. Stretching and massaging of limbs occurred twice a day while soothing music played in the background. The in-house neurologists performed frequent EEGs to ascertain brain function, and the results showed that synapses were still actively firing in Neal’s cerebral cortex. Therefore, they advised both Peter and Mozzie to talk to Neal because their familiar voices could be his lifeline back to the real world. So, during warm, pleasant Saturdays and Sundays, Peter and Mozzie wheeled the young man out onto a sunny patio and held one-sided conversations with someone who didn’t appear to be listening.

Peter, however, did listen in rapt, captivated attention as Mozzie reminisced about audacious capers from years ago—all purely hypothetical, the little man adamantly claimed. The FBI agent was in stunned awe as it became clear how very brilliant and clever these two grifters were in their past lives spent as thieves and con artists. Peter now also knew about a plethora of forged paintings, sculptures, and even gemstones that were still clandestinely masquerading as the real thing in venerable, well-respected museums around the world. He surmised that somewhere around the globe, there was an eclectic cache of treasures that could fill a castle. Of course, Peter would never divulge a word of these accounts that were as fascinating as Scheherazade’s “One Thousand and One Tales.” After all, just as Mozzie said—they were all “hypothetical.”

Somehow during this trial by fire, Peter had come to admire and respect Mozzie. The weird little gnome really did have Neal’s best interests at heart, and he tenaciously grabbed onto hope with both hands and refused to let go. So, okay, Mozzie was definitely strange and sometimes irritating, but you had to love him in spite of those little foibles. It seemed as if a lot of people allowed him latitude because he kind of grew on you with his earnest logic and intense, benevolent caring.

Even though the nurses forbade him from lighting candles in Neal’s room because they constituted a fire hazard, the staff turned a blind eye to the joss sticks that filled the hall with pungent incense. Every morning they gently washed the mixture of bee pollen and honey from Neal’s forehead and temples that had been applied by his homeopathic friend the previous night. Maybe it hadn’t helped, but it hadn’t done any harm either, and the gesture made Mozzie feel a bit more useful and proactive.

On this particular morning at the onset of week four, Mozzie had arrived with two thermal hot flasks in his hands. One contained his favorite blend of herbal tea, and the other a strong, bracing brew of June’s Italian Roast, something that Neal had always loved and savored. The hopeful little man had taken to doing this lately. While he enjoyed his own beverage, he carefully lifted the lid from the coffee and allowed its pungent richness to fill the air. It’s was Mozzie’s well-intentioned form of aromatherapy for Neal.

Mozzie was just settling himself for the duration when he noticed something that made him immediately irate. He saw that both of Neal’s wrists were secured to the bed frame with soft, padded restraints. The little bald man jerked erect and strode purposefully from the room on a determined mission.

“Why have you placed Neal in restraints!” he demanded to know in a voice that startled the head nurse seated at a computer.

“Mr. Haversham,” she stuttered, “please calm down. Let me assure you that we don’t do things on a whim here in rehab. There is always a logical and necessary reason for any measures that we put into place.”

“Enlighten me!” Mozzie said menacingly through clenched teeth.

The nurse gently shepherded the angry man into a quiet conference room where the unit’s resident psychologist sat enjoying his own cup of java. She made the doctor aware of the visitor’s complaint and passed the baton to the specialist to offer an explanation.

“Mr. Haversham,” the physician began calmly, “obviously you are upset by our use of a protective measure.”

“How is tying Neal up protecting him?” Mozzie asked cynically.

Heaving a sigh, the doctor began reiterating certain facts that had already been covered in depth, just days before, with both Peter and Mozzie.

“As you know, recently Mr. Caffrey has been exhibiting uncoordinated movements in his extremities.”

“Right,” Mozzie quipped. “There’s also been movement behind his eyelids, and he’s even opened them a few times, although he didn’t seem focused and he didn’t recognize us.”

“Well, all of those manifestations are things that we often see exhibited by patients in an altered mental state,” the doctor said with authority. “The disjointed flailing, the random eye movements, even the occasional utterance of a sound does not mean that a coma is lightening. They’re just part of the coma spectrum, so don’t get your hopes up at this juncture.

Now, the reason that I authorized the use of restraints was that Mr. Caffrey was particularly agitated last night. We would never use sedation on our patients, so we must protect them in another way. Your friend could have hurt himself against the side rails or even taken a tumble from the bed, so we decided to err on the side of caution.”

With a shrug of his shoulders and a perfunctory little smile, the physician took his cup of coffee and left the room. The head nurse gave Mozzie a sympathetic look and patted his arm as they made their way to Neal’s room where she untied the cloth strips.

“Let me know when you’re ready to leave. I’ll have to put them back on at that time,” she informed him gently.

“You know,” the deflated little man murmured, “that ‘Sigmund Freud wanna-be’ made _‘hope’_ seem like a dirty four-letter word.”

The compassionate RN awarded Mozzie a little smile as she answered, “Now where would this world be without a little hope in it?”


	3. Chapter 3

Mozzie tried to get interested in the paperback copy of _“Extraterrestrial Life—Are the ETs Coming for Us?”_   His tea had grown cold, but the subtle aroma of Italian Roast still hung in the air. Neal hadn’t moved in the last hour, so Mozzie didn’t feel too guilty as he let his eyes close in calming meditation. He was mentally chanting his own personal mantra over and over when his concentration faltered. At first, he wasn’t sure what the distraction had been, but then he heard it again.

“Moz?”

A spike of adrenalin caused him to startle and immediately open his eyes to peer at the man in the bed beside him. Neal was staring in his direction, and his eyes were now clear and focused.

“Neal,” the astounded little man breathed softly.

“What happened, Mozzie? Where am I? I’m not even sure where ‘here’ is,” Neal whispered, his words distinct but troubled.

“You were hurt in an explosion, mon frère, and you’re in a New York City rehab hospital,” Mozzie explained after he found his own voice.

“I don’t remember that,” Neal answered as he gave Mozzie a puzzled look.

“Maybe it’s good that you don’t remember,” Mozzie informed his friend.

“What name am I going by?” Neal asked as he noted the hospital identity band on his wrist. “How did you register me when I was brought in?”

“You’re going by your own name, Neal,” Mozzie answered slowly, as tendrils of anxiety suddenly began to worm their way through his body.

 “Mozzie, what were you thinking?” Neal said in a rush as he suddenly became agitated. “Now I’m a big fat sitting duck! My name will send up red flags for the Feds, not to mention a particularly obnoxious agent named Burke the Jerk. You’ve got to get me out of here before they descend on us like a swarm of locusts!”

“Take it easy, Neal,” Mozzie advised as he tried to get a handle on this weird development. “Hiding in plain sight is sometimes the best way to go undetected.”

“I don’t know, Moz,” the young man murmured uncertainly.

“Trust me, mon frère,” his confused little cohort pleaded. “You know I’ve always got your back.”

“Okay, I guess,” Neal answered like a chastised child, which made Mozzie freak out even more because this demeanor was so “not-Neal.”

Mozzie pulled his chair closer to his friend’s bedside. “Tell me the last thing that you do remember.”

Neal’s forehead furrowed in concentration. “I think I remember being in Vincent Adler’s office earlier in the day, and then Kate came to my apartment in the evening. She said she decided not to go to Chicago after all.”

Mozzie was dumfounded, but before he could respond, Neal’s brain brought forth another related thought.

“Kate didn’t change her mind, did she, Moz? Please tell me she didn’t go to Chicago with that other guy?”

“No, mon frère,” Mozzie reassured Neal. “Kate never went to Chicago.”

“Good!” Neal seemed pacified for the moment. Then he admitted in a small, insecure voice, “My mind is pretty fuzzy right now, and I can’t get my head around why I’m working for Adler. What’s our endgame?”

Mozzie wasn’t sure how to play this and how much to reveal. It was obvious that Neal’s mind now resided in another place in time. Would Mozzie be doing more harm by confronting Neal with the harsh reality of many lost years? Maybe it would cause psychological damage and set back any kind of therapeutic recovery. The little bald man was reeling and felt way out of his depth on this one.

“All that stuff isn’t important right now,” he finally said slowly. “When you’re stronger and the time is right, I’ll fill you in. Right now, you need to heal and get your sea legs back under you. You’ve been out of it and lying around like a lox for almost a month, so cut yourself some slack. I’m sure everything will come back to you. Now, stay put and behave yourself. I’m going to tell the doctor that you’ve finally returned to the land of the living.”

Mozzie didn’t immediately rush off to find the condescending neurologist from earlier. He needed to think things through. Neal had admitted that his mind was confused, and Mozzie could certainly say the same thing about his own.

It appeared as if the “Neal” now lying in that bed was a reincarnation of the brilliant, talented, and malleable young man who had once slickly conned Mozzie in a Three-Card-Monte scam. That fateful encounter seemed like it had happened a lifetime ago. Was God now indulging His ironic sense of humor and tempting them with a do-over so that they could take up where they had once left off? It was a tantalizing scenario to contemplate. Mozzie was confident that he could spirit Neal away in the dead of night. There was no anklet that would warn anyone. He could take his friend to Europe and lay low until Neal finally figured it all out. Then the young con man could make his own decisions about the rest of his life.

However, _if_ a vulnerable Neal didn’t figure it out—well, that was so much the better. He wouldn’t remember years of prison, Kate’s fiery death, or even a misguided sexual attraction to his FBI handler. What to do, what to do?” Mozzie seesawed back and forth with indecision.

In the end, the troubled man bit the bullet and went in search of the neurologist.

~~~~~~~~~~

It had been a long and arduous day for Peter. He and his team had finally run a gang of counterfeiters to ground, and the amount of paperwork involved afterward was enormous. However, as always, the buck stopped with him, so he made sure that every last detail in his report was documented and irrefutable. He had hoped to wrap things up earlier so that he could stop by to visit Neal, but since it was after 7 PM, that didn’t seem to be in the cards tonight. He tiredly put on his coat and decided to grab some Chinese takeout on his way home.

Parking at the curb outside of his townhome, he was shocked to see Mozzie huddled on his doorstep. The little guy rarely crossed Peter’s threshold unless under pressure, so Peter’s gut went into overdrive. Something had to be very wrong to make the bespectacled bald man camp out like a homeless person. Of course, Peter’s thoughts immediately turned to Neal.

“Why are you here, Mozzie? Has something happened to Neal?” Peter demanded as he bolted from the car completely forgetting his take-out bag of food.

“Well, let’s just say that there have been some new developments,” Mozzie equivocated as he stood up. “Now, will you please invite me inside. I’m stiff and cold from sitting on your cement steps for hours. Of course, I could have easily let myself in, but I thought that might piss you off.”

Peter quickly herded Mozzie inside and then raised his eyebrows and scowled.

Mozzie was not intimidated and asked meekly for a cup of hot tea. As he perched on a kitchen stool and wrapped his hands around the welcome warmth of the mug, he began his spiel. It was so typically Mozzie.

“Suit, how familiar are you will Einstein’s theory of relativity, especially as it pertains to time? Are you aware that he postulated that time and space are not as constant as everyday life would suggest? Did you also know that the great man believed that time is actually a curved phenomenon? Going a step further, he predicted that a sufficiently compact mass can deform space time. Stephen Hawking later theorized about this same idea and gave it a name. He called it a black hole from which nothing can escape.”

“Why are you telling me this?” a confused Peter wanted to know. “Are you tipsy, or have you finally walked off the deep end of the pier?”

“I’m just attempting to lay the groundwork so that your intellectually-challenged brain might grasp certain concepts,” Mozzie snarked. “I’m trying to develop some parallels between the theory of relativity and the ‘Neal’ development that I mentioned.”

“Damn it, Mozzie, just tell me what happened today, or I may strangle you!” Peter barked.

The little man heaved a put-upon sigh. “To put it succinctly, Neal woke up this morning. However, he seems to have bounced across the time spectrum and got caught up in a black hole.”

Peter’s mouth just hung open, then the agonized questions spewed out. “Are you saying that Neal has been left with cognitive deficits? Does he have residual brain damage? How bad is it?”

“Let me put it another way, Suit,” Mozzie tried again. “Although Neal doesn’t seem to be cerebrally impaired, there have been some alterations in how he now sees the world. Try to picture ‘time’ as a giant vinyl record with a multitude of concentric grooved circles on its surface. Well, Neal seems to have skipped across a few of those grooves to another decade in the past. He doesn’t remember anything about the last ten years of his life.”

Peter felt as if he had been punched in his solar plexus. He fumbled for an adjacent kitchen stool and sat down hard.

“Is this something that’s going to be permanent?” he asked Mozzie. “Will his memory eventually come back? What do the doctors say?”

“As you can imagine, the doctors were all in a tizzy. They began poking and prodding Neal like he was some kind of weird curiosity. The entire day was taken up with every test in their arsenal of alienism. They consulted with one another. They scratched their heads. Then they consulted some more. Their final consensus was that Neal is suffering a form of retrograde amnesia precipitated by the traumatic injury to his brain which damaged the memory-storing areas. They lectured in depth on the syndrome right before I left the hospital tonight.

The shrink gurus explained that someone who develops retrograde amnesia after a traumatic brain injury cannot remember what happened in the time prior to the injury. Usually their most recent memories are affected first, while older memories are spared. The extent of retrograde amnesia can vary significantly. Some people may only lose memories from the year or two prior to the injury. Other people may lose decades. But even when people lose decades, they typically hang on to memories from childhood and adolescence.

There is one plus side to retrograde amnesia. Memory loss usually only involves facts rather than skills. For example, someone might forget whether they own a computer or have ever bought one—but they still know how to use one. Sometimes, the memories do come back, or at least, some of them, and many times that happens spontaneously. They also could come back slowly in dribs and drabs. Unfortunately, sometimes everything is lost forever. There is no treatment or magic pill. Sadly, it boils down to a waiting game.”

Peter felt gob smacked. He was so very grateful that Neal had awakened and seemed to have his mental faculties, but losing a chunk of his life—well, that was friggin’ scary.

“So, you’re saying that Neal has no memory of going to prison or later working as a consultant on parole for the FBI. He has no memories of me?”

“Oh, he certainly remembers you, Suit, because you definitely made an impact. However, for him you were, and continue to be, a persistent annoying antagonist in a tenuous game of cat and mouse that he believes is still being played out.”

Peter frowned. “What if we filled him in on the details that he’s missing. I could show him his picture on his consultant’s credentials.”

“The specialists at the hospital claim that providing verbal or physical prompts and cues usually doesn’t help. Even if you were to show Neal his badge, his mind would reject that it represented the truth. It’s not a part of his life as he remembers it.”

“I need to see him,” Peter declared with a determined air. “If I’m right in his face, it has to trigger something. We were too close for him to forget everything that we shared.”

Mozzie held up at hand. “Look, Peter, I know you’re a take-charge kind of guy and you like to be in control of every situation. However, it may be time for you to take a step back and rethink your strategy. Right now, you probably feel like you’ve been sandbagged, but you need to process things slowly and not go off half-cocked. You certainly wouldn’t want to freak Neal out anymore than he already is. Think about it from his side of the equation. He wakes up in a strange place, doesn’t know how he got there, and he doesn’t know why he can’t remember any of the details. I’ll stay with him until we know how it’s all going to play out. Hopefully, this unforeseen snag may resolve on its own before you do anything drastic.”

That little speech certainly didn’t pacify Peter, but he did calm down a bit. He loved Neal with all his heart and didn’t ever want to do anything to hurt him.

“I’ll give you a couple of days alone with him, Mozzie, but then I’m putting in an appearance, come hell or high water.”

“Duly noted,” Mozzie murmured as he climbed from the chair and headed for the front door. A small reprieve was better than nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

It was torture for Peter to stay away from Neal, but he kept his word. However, that didn’t stop him from putting Mozzie through an intense grilling each night about Neal’s progress. Unfortunately, Mozzie admitted there was none, at least not on the memory front.

“Suit, I know that you promised two days of amnesty, but maybe we could negotiate extending that deadline,” Mozzie said on the second night. “Neal gets easily frustrated, and then he starts to worry that he’s going crazy. I had June stop by today for a little visit after I clued her in about his situation. I just wanted to gently test the waters. Of course, Neal was charming and courteous while she was there. They made idle chit chat for a while. However, after she left, he admitted that, although she seemed like a nice, kind lady, she wasn’t familiar to him at all. At first, he was embarrassed, but later, he seemed very depressed.

To make matters worse, he keeps asking where Kate is, and I’m running out of creative excuses to explain her absence. Peter, the Neal that we know and love isn’t here right now. Please be patient and give him a little more time. And, for God’s sake, don’t tell the evil Federal consortium about the problem. They’ll only make his life more of a hell than it already is.”

Peter sighed and admitted that he was probably as frustrated and frightened as Neal. He had his lover’s best interests at heart, but it was agony to know that perhaps he would never again be part of the young man’s life—at least not in a good way. Peter had once again become the enemy, a mantle he didn’t want to wear.

“Okay, Mozzie, I’ll keep my distance for now,” Peter finally capitulated. “But I’m not going to allow myself to be shut out forever. In the meantime, you’ll keep me in the loop.”

Although Peter didn’t present himself, front and center, in Neal’s hospital room, that did not stop him from doing some clandestine surveillance. During the next few days, he lurked in the corridor outside the hospital’s gymnasium and snuck peaks through the glass as Neal underwent intense physical therapy. He watched an unsteady but determined young man walk on a treadmill and lift weights to strengthen muscles that had lost their tone and definition after a month of disuse. Neal looked much too thin. Peter could count the ribs and visualize distinct vertebrae under the thin cotton t-shirt that he wore. Mozzie reported that the dietician had Neal on a high protein diet, but it was clearly evident he had a long way to go before he could pack on the pounds once again.

However, to Peter’s eyes, Neal was beautiful. He was a warm and living embodiment of everything that Peter loved unconditionally. To think that Neal might never love him back was terrifying. Mozzie had claimed that Neal got depressed, and, likewise, Peter had to work at not allowing depression to overtake him. To make matters worse, he was walking a tightrope right now as an FBI agent. Not divulging Neal’s condition to the Department of Justice was teetering on insubordination and might have dire repercussions. But Peter really didn’t care about any of that at the moment. What he really wanted to do was manipulate “time.” He wanted to turn the clock back to before that horrendous undercover sting in a fucking warehouse in Queens!

~~~~~~~~~~

Mozzie walked into Neal’s room one morning to find the young man staring wistfully at the vista outside the window. He turned when he heard someone enter, and there was a heartbreaking longing in his tone when he said, “Moz, please, I’ve got to get out of here.”

“Neal, we’ve talked about this,” Mozzie said patiently. “You’re just not ready yet.”

“Maybe I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” Neal argued. “Look, Moz, my psychologists and caseworkers have brought me up to speed on what’s been happening in the world since I took my little sabbatical. I can name the current and past president, I’m up to date on the Middle East conflicts, ISIS, and global terrorism. I now know about a little caricature of a tyrant in North Korea, and I even know that the Philadelphia Eagles won their first Super Bowl rings. I can manage anything else by faking it. The longer that I stay still, the more likely the Feds will glom onto my existence right under their noses.”

When Mozzie’s expression still remained unmoved and stubborn, Neal pushed the envelope.

“If you won’t help me, Moz, I’ll do it myself.”

Mozzie had to face facts. He had stalled as long as he could. He recognized that Neal was determined to carry out his threat, so Mozzie would have to toss him a lifeline to regain control of the situation. That had been their steadfast dynamic in years gone by. Neal had always been the impulsive one who could fly by the seat of his pants if a situation became dire. Mozzie was the plodding, careful planner who tried to prevent that from happening. Slow and steady had always won the race for them, and Neal knew that to be true and had trusted his mentor implicitly. Now the devoted little man had to somehow see this through while still protecting his defenseless friend.

“Okay, mon frère, cool your jets. I’ll make it happen, but I need a few days to get all of our ducks in a row. Promise me that you’ll sit still a little longer. According to a Benjamin Disraeli quote, _“Everything comes if a man will only wait.”_

Mozzie was rewarded with Neal’s expansive eye roll.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter had actually managed to get out of the office at a decent hour and pulled up to his townhome in Brooklyn in the late afternoon. With attaché case in hand, he climbed the few front steps and used his key to open the door. As he stepped from the tiny vestibule into the living room, the startled FBI agent dropped the leather case and was reaching for the pistol in his shoulder holster when he recognized his home invader.

“MOZZIE!” Peter bellowed. “Do you realize that I could have shot you!”

Mozzie looked up calmly from the sofa where he had been idly turning the pages of a ‘ _National Geographic’_ magazine.

“Your reading matter leaves something to be desired, Suit,” he groused. “You could at least spring for a subscription to _‘People’_ magazine so that I can keep up with the Kardashians.”

Peter snorted. “Why are you here, Mozzie, and why did you pick your way into my house? At least the last time you dropped by unexpectedly, you had the courtesy to wait on the stoop. Why couldn’t you do the same thing this time?”

The target of Peter’s wrath lifted his hands and looked to the heavens as if for strength. “Because it’s daylight outside, you nitwit. Your neighbors would most likely call a beat cop to report an unsavory character lurking on the premises. I make it a point to limit my interaction with the boys in blue because they really don’t seem to understand me.”

Peter sighed and accepted the inevitable. “Since you’ve made yourself at home, do you want something to drink?”

“Thanks, but I’m good right now,” Mozzie answered smoothly. “I took the liberty of brewing some tea earlier. You should put chamomile on your shopping list. I much prefer that to Earl Grey.”

Peter went to make a cup of coffee for himself just to keep his hands busy so that he wouldn’t be tempted to put them around Mozzie’s neck.

“I am assuming that you’ve come to talk about Neal,” Peter said slowly. “Has there been any change?”

“Afraid not, Suit. However, it may be time for an intervention. Our reckless young man is making noises about taking himself on the lam.”

Peter sat down and mulled over this unexpected revelation and the capitulation on Mozzie’s end.

“So, are you throwing in the towel and admitting that it may be best to bring out the big guns and confront him?” Peter said thoughtfully.

“As much as I hate to admit it, yes,” Mozzie replied sadly.

Peter steepled his fingers in front of his lips. “Okay, why don’t the two of us do that tomorrow. I can meet you at the rehab center anytime that you think Neal won’t be tied up in therapy sessions.”

“Whoa, Suit. Don’t start assuming things,” Mozzie interrupted. “When I said intervention, I meant for you to intervene. I can’t show up and stand shoulder to shoulder with you. That would make Neal think that I have gone over to the dark side.”

Peter sighed. “So, we’re going to be playing good cop, bad cop, and you’re going to be ‘Team Neal’ all the way. If he doesn’t believe a word that I say, are you going to come swooping in later to refute everything I told him and further perpetrate his delusion?”

“I won’t deny that the thought had crossed my mind,” Mozzie admitted. “But, believe it or not, I do want what’s best for Neal. If push comes to shove, I’ll reinforce your narrative,” he promised. “Above all, I want him to be happy again. Against all odds, he seemed to be content with you and your arrangement—the obvious one and the not so obvious one.”

“I want him to be happy, too,” Peter murmured, “and I desperately want him to come back to me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It was early evening of the next day. Neal had finished all his rehab chores hours before and was studying the pages of an art book that Mozzie had left behind. The little guy was absent tonight, giving the excuse that he was putting the pieces together for Neal’s disappearing act. The young patient heard someone enter and expected that it was a member of the staff. Instead, Neal found himself staring into the dark eyes of Peter Burke.

The startled former con man willed himself to stand up, put on a stoic expression, and fearlessly confront the object of his worst nightmares.

“Agent Burke,” he murmured.

“Neal Caffrey,” the FBI agent responded just as softly.

Peter peered searchingly into Neal’s eyes for the slightest hint of recognition. What he saw was initial shock, dogged willfulness, and finally, resignation flit across the depths of those deep blue eyes. He saw nothing that offered even a hint of affection or trust.

“Maybe we’d better sit down for this discussion, Neal. You look a bit frail, like a good gust of wind could knock you over,” Peter finally said to stall for time.

“It might be a bit difficult for you to put the cuffs on me, Agent Burke, if I’m sitting in a chair. You’ve come to arrest me, right? So, at least grant me the dignity of standing up like a man when you do it,” Neal quipped sarcastically.

“Just sit, Neal,” Peter said tiredly as he pulled another chair close and seated himself.

Neal looked confused and stubborn, but he felt uncomfortable looming over his nemesis. Wasn’t this picture supposed to be the other way around? However, after a few seconds of indecision, he finally lowered himself into the chair and waited for Burke’s next move.

Peter had brought a small brown bag with him. He slowly withdrew a circular black apparatus made of neoprene from its depths.

“Do you know what this is, Neal?” he asked softly.

“Looks like an obnoxious tracking anklet,” Neal ventured a guess.

“Actually, it’s _your_ tracking anklet. You wore it for almost four years while you worked right beside me as my confidential informant. We had quite a professional relationship, Buddy. We made history at the Bureau taking down the bad guys.”

Neal snorted in indignation. “That ridiculous tale is so out of the realm of possibility that it’s laughable. I’d never allow myself to be placed in a position to narc on my criminal friends and acquaintances. So, stop trying to gaslight me, Agent Burke. It’s certainly okay to crow and feel superior about finally arresting me tonight, but don’t make this into some kind of stupid parody. That’s so beneath you. Get your rocks off some other way.”

Peter sighed as he tried again. “Look, Neal, I know that you suffered a severe head trauma and have lost a big chunk of your life—a life that had me in it. But, like it or not, what I’m telling you is the truth. Over the years, I’ve come to know you as well as I know myself. I can recite your favorite foods, the music that you like, and your preferred Renaissance artists. I can tell you where you get your hair cut, have your suits cleaned, and the name of your dentist.”

When Neal just glared and didn’t look convinced, Peter shook his head and traced his finger around the perimeter of the tracking anklet. “Actually, this piece of jewelry was your idea to get yourself out of prison. Once upon a time, you found yourself between a rock and a hard place, and you probably felt that it was the only option open to you at the time. I’m not going to say that we didn’t have our ups and downs after that, but, over time, we managed to somehow make it work. We became very …. close,” Peter ended lamely.

“I don’t believe you,” Neal said adamantly.

“Well, believe this,” Peter said with angst in his voice, “I care about you Neal. I’d never want to see you hurt again, and I definitely don’t want to see you go back to prison. So, _do not_ do anything rash that will have me chasing after you again. Stay put, do whatever the doctors tell you to do, and, with a healthy dose of luck, you’ll get those lost memories back. Right now, that is my fervent hope and it should be yours as well.”

Then Peter stood, and using a small key, opened the black anklet and knelt down to attach it to Neal’s leg.

“Just a little deterrent to make you think twice before you do something stupid,” he said as he stared deeply into Neal’s eyes. Then he pulled another item from the brown bag. It was an envelope that he dropped on the bed as he quietly left the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

Mozzie dreaded his next interaction with Neal. He took some calming breaths to center himself before he quietly pushed open the door to his friend’s room early the next morning. A breakfast tray sat untouched on the overbed table. Neal was standing by the window once again, but this time he was holding two color photographs in his hands. He looked up at Mozzie with a troubled and lost expression.

“You can forget the escape plan, Moz. We’re a day late and a dollar short, so that ship has sailed,” he said morosely.

Mozzie wisely kept silent and tried to get the lay of the land.

“Agent Burke materialized last night,” Neal continued in an irritable voice. “He tried to run a con on me, like that could ever happen to yours truly. I’m the master of that game, and he’ll never be more than an also-ran in any matchup.”

“What exactly did he say?” Mozzie asked softly.

Neal gave a brittle laugh as he replayed their conversation from the previous night. “He claimed that we were _partners_ , and that I actually helped the FBI take down criminals. And look, Moz, he even came prepared with visual aids,” Neal scoffed as he tossed the photos in Mozzie’s direction.

Mozzie gently picked them up from the floor where they had fluttered down. One was a group shot of the entire White Collar team of agents gathered in the bullpen. Someone, who was probably standing on the second level balcony, had snapped the assembly which featured a smiling Neal centered in the frame right beside Peter.

Mozzie was very familiar with the second photo. He had seen it often enough on the mantle above the fireplace in Burke’s living room. Peter called it their “prom” picture. Two handsome men clad in formal black tuxedos and crisp white shirts were grinning at the camera. Each had an affectionate arm slung around the other’s shoulder. Mozzie seemed to recall that it was taken before some kind of off-track betting sting that the two men had cooked up to catch a mobster.

“You have to give the geeks at the Bureau kudos. They sure know how to photoshop,” Neal sneered.

Then another thought seemed to suddenly enter Neal’s mind. “How did you get past the guard on my door, Moz?”

“There is no guard stationed outside, Neal,” Mozzie explained.

Neal’s forehead furrowed in confusion. Being at sea seemed to be his constant mindset recently. However, now he slowly lifted the leg of his jeans and stared at the anklet as a tiny vestige of hope took root and began to grow. A daring escape was definitely doable!


	5. Chapter 5

Neal began to pace with agitated intensity. “We can still pull this off, Moz, but we’ll have to do it now while Burke sees me as too weak and fragile to run. Thankfully, that misconception has made him sloppy and complacent. So, we can take advantage of his smug sense of security. Bring some sturdy tin snips and an orderly’s uniform back here as soon as you can. Then we can sneak out and be on our way before the FBI or the Marshals can mobilize a response.”

Mozzie heaved a sigh. “Neal,” he said gently, “sit down.”

Neal stopped short in the midst of his pacing and stared at his friend. “People keep telling me to sit down, and usually, soon after that, I find myself hearing things that I don’t want to hear.”

Mozzie just lifted an eyebrow and waited.

Finally, Neal obeyed Mozzie’s request and looked at his cohort expectantly.

“Neal, why do you think Peter Burke was ‘gaslighting’ you, as you so quaintly phrased it?”

Neal frowned. “Maybe because he wants to get even for all the times I messed with his head during our capers and I rubbed his nose in it. Or maybe he’s just a sadist and that’s how he gets his kicks.”

“So,” Mozzie slowly responded, “you think that he went to all the trouble and effort of concocting a fantastic lie just to pluck your nerves and piss you off?”

Suddenly Neal wasn’t so sure. “What are you trying to say, Mozzie? Just spit it out!”

So, a hesitant little bald man did. “Neal, did you even entertain the thought that what he said might be true? I realize that you can’t remember, so isn’t it fair to say that your missing gap of the last ten years could have played out just exactly as Burke told you?”

Neal was suddenly shaking his head from side to side. He looked miserable and hurt.

“That would mean that you knew about it and you let it happen, Mozzie. How could you be complicit? How could you go over to the dark side and betray me? Why? —just tell me why?” he pleaded.

“I didn’t betray you, Neal!” Mozzie earnestly denied the accusation. “Surely you know in your heart that I’m always on _your_ side. But you were the one who eventually chose a side—maybe not the side that I favored, but it was the side that _you_ wanted. So, I adapted. I tolerated and continue to tolerate Peter Burke because, believe it or not, he does have your best interests at heart. He cares about you and has been enduring the same hell as me all these past weeks not knowing if you were going to live or die or if you were ever going to remember.”

Neal was silent as he mulled over Mozzie’s words. “Burke said that I brokered the deal to get out of prison because it was my only option. Well, now I have other options. Maybe I once had a temporary aberration in my force field because of my circumstances, but now I have a second chance to be who I really am. I get to have another bite of the apple. I really can’t imagine wanting the life that Burke allowed me to have. It’s certainly not the life that I want now,” he ended firmly.

~~~~~~~~~~

“So, tell me how it went this morning,” Peter demanded to know when he touched base with Mozzie by phone that afternoon.

“Not well,” Mozzie answered sadly. “When I backed your play, Neal was definitely not happy with me.”

“Tell me exactly what he said,” Peter asked anxiously.

“He said that the life you told him about was definitely not the life he wants now. He’s not interested in resurrecting what he considers to be a mockery. To make a long story short, I am now considered to be persona non-grata.”

“Well, join the club, Pal,” Peter replied. “I guess the next step is getting his attention and tweaking his curiosity. I intend to entice him to _get_ interested.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter boldly appeared in Neal’s room that evening. He had brought a banker’s box loaded with FBI files. He made himself comfortable next to Neal and withdrew a manila folder that rested on top and plopped it down on the bedside table.

“This is an interesting cold case—a real puzzle. None of the other agents can seem to get a handle on how this forger is moving his merchandise. Care to give it a whirl, genius, and put all the FBI drones to shame? C’mon, Neal, strut your stuff so you can show them how it’s done.”

Neal stared at Peter as if the man had two heads. Then he snorted and used the remote to turn on the television.

“Okay,” Peter taunted, “if you’re not quite up to it yet, we can watch reruns of _‘Law and Order.’_ Maybe that will afford you some insights and get your brilliant mind back on track going in the right direction.”

Peter was undaunted. The next night, it was a different case involving a wily embezzler. While Peter outlined the details of the crime that the FBI couldn’t prove, Neal stubbornly ignored him and read the newspaper.

Peter kept coming back, sometimes bringing Neal’s favorite cronuts or a container of the pistachio ice cream that he liked. At one point, he plopped a familiar small bust of Socrates down in front of Neal.

“A likeness of your mother?” Neal deadpanned snidely.

“Don’t be an obnoxious little twerp, Neal!” Peter chastised. “You kept this guy on the edge of your desk at the Bureau and touched his head for luck before you went on every operation.”

“Well, apparently the old Greek had lost his mojo,” Neal said bitterly and turned away.

By the end of the week, Neal finally deigned to address Peter again as the FBI agent was spieling out details about a serial killer who had crossed the Hudson on a bloody trek across the United States.

“Agent Burke, you’re wasting your energy trying to engage me in your Fed games. Don’t you think that you should go home to your neglected wife and spend some quality time with her?”

Peter became ominously still and stared deep into Neal’s eyes. “There is no Mrs. Burke—at least not anymore. Right now, I’m spending time with the one person that I want to be with whether he likes it or not.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Although Peter didn’t seem to be making any headway getting Neal’s attention, there was a sudden focused attention on another front. A Washington bean counter in the FBI’s financial department was puzzled. It was the man’s job to oversee submitted expenditures in all the Bureau sectors, and that included ones of a medical nature. For the last month and a half, he had been routinely approving and authorizing payments on an individual’s behalf who was covered under the government’s extensive health care plan. At first, the costs submitted by a trauma hospital for the designated patient had been astronomical. Then, after a few weeks, there was a substantial lessening of costs turned in by a traumatic brain injury rehabilitation center.

So, okay, the accountant reasoned. The agent must have been seriously hurt and sustained some sort of horrendous damage that involved the brain. Initially, there were the expected submissions from the rehab center for room and board, weekly EEGs, and some palliative physical therapy. The finance guy made an assumption that perhaps the poor agent was in an unresponsive state. Bad luck for him.

However, just recently the medical costs had escalated and included claims not only by the center, but by its dieticians, personal trainers, and various psychiatrists who, apparently, were seeing the patient on a daily basis. Or, at least that’s what they claimed.

The CPA really hoped that the injured patient had made a remarkable recovery, but there was still some doubt that niggled in his mind. It was certainly not unheard of for hospitals and physicians to pad their claims hoping they could sneak them through the system. However, they better not try it when this eagle-eyed accountant was on the job. Fraud was fraud, and he was going to make sure that it was not happening right now.

So, the suspicious auditor wrote up his concerns and passed them along the proper channels. Eventually, there was a trickledown effect. Two agents in Washington DC were dispatched with a Federal warrant in hand to make the trip up the I95 corridor to the Big Apple. They obtained Neal’s medical records, and then the men in black paid the patient a visit. The next day, they had their FBI shrinks follow up and have their own sit down with Caffrey. When they turned in their reports, Peter was called on the carpet.

“Peter, why in the world didn’t you tell anyone that Neal had come out of his coma?” Reese Hughes demanded to know. “According to this report in my hand, that happened several weeks ago.”

Peter tried not to squirm under Hughes’ penetrating scowl as he offered a sorry excuse. “It’s complicated, Reese.”

“How so?” Hughes asked succinctly, although he already knew the reason but wanted to at least hear his agent’s motivation for skirting protocol.

“Unfortunately, Neal cannot seem to recall any of the last ten years. I’ve been working with him trying to bring him back to where he needs to be. I just wanted time to break through the barriers.”

“Apparently, you’ve had more than enough time to drag him back to reality—weeks, actually. However, according to the Bureau psychiatrists, it appears that you haven’t been very successful.”

“So, what happens to him now?” Peter wanted to know.

“You should be more concerned about what happens to yourself, Peter. You didn’t follow procedure and your ethics are now under close scrutiny by the higher ups in the food chain. At this juncture, consider yourself lucky that you’re not losing your badge and credentials. By coloring outside the lines and going off-book you have earned an official reprimand and some time away from the office without pay starting right now.”

“I asked what’s going to happen to Neal, Reese,” Peter said with a determined air.

“I know it’s not what you want to hear, Peter, but a decision has been made to return him to Sing Sing when he’s healthy enough to travel. The agents and the shrinks have all concluded that Caffrey has reverted to type, shows no remorse for his past actions, and would probably take up the life again in a heartbeat. He’s displaying no evidence of all the rehabilitative progress that he had made over his years with you. I’m really sorry, Peter. I feel bad for him, and you, as well. I know that you put a lot of time and effort into him, and the two of you had become close. I wish there was something that I could do but my hands are tied.”

Peter just nodded his head mutely, left Hughes’ office, and gathered up a few things from his own. Once in the car, he made a fateful phone call on his way home to the one person who _could_ help Neal.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal had two stealthy intruders that night who invaded his hospital room right before the end of visiting hours. It was the first time that Mozzie had seen Neal since that infamous day of reckoning. Nonetheless, the little man seemed determined, and stared Neal down as he placed a three-piece vintage suit and a classic fedora on the bed. Peter took it upon himself to address a wary Neal.

“It’s flashpoint time, Hot Shot. Because you couldn’t at least try to bluff your way out of a sticky situation, you sealed your fate. The Department of Justice has decided to return you to Federal prison.”

Neal shrugged and tried for bravado. “Apparently, I’ve done hard time before, so I suppose I can do it again. That trumps the alternative of selling my soul.”

Peter gave in to his exasperation. “Sometimes you are your own worst enemy, Buddy, not to mention being a contender for a ‘Darwin’ idiot award.  Now, just lose the attitude, shut up, and listen carefully. Put the clothes on that your little pal brought. I gave him the key to your anklet. After you two give me enough time to get home, he’ll unlock it and you guys can make tracks. I’ll tell the Marshals that my pocket must have been picked without my knowledge.

Mozzie has a private plane gassed up and ready to go at Teterboro. He didn’t file a flight plan, and I don’t want to know where you two are headed. Run fast and hard, Neal, because everybody, including the Marshals and the bounty hunters, will eventually take up the chase.”

Neal just stood uncertainly and stared. Finally, he found his voice and asked, “Why would you do this, Agent Burke?”

The young man wasn’t expecting Peter’s next move. The older man stepped forward and engulfed Neal in a warm hug as he whispered softly, “Because when you love somebody, sometimes you have to let them go.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Of course, with Mozzie handling the details, the escape went off without a hitch. Before the first inkling by the authorities that something was out of kilter, a small private Learjet was headed toward the Southern Hemisphere. The clever little man reasoned that during their heydays as thieves and con men, the metropolises across Europe had been their playgrounds. It was tempting to imagine themselves under olive trees in Tuscany or on a private yacht in Monte Carlo. That was definitely possible because, over the years, Mozzie and Neal had been frugal and had amassed a more than adequate cache of both merchandise and euros to make it happen. However, Mozzie decided that they could live their dreams a bit later down the road. Neal still needed more time to regain his strength. So, the first stop on their odyssey was Rio de Janeiro in Brazil, and Mozzie had come prepared with his Berlitz tapes of Portuguese lessons.


	6. Chapter 6

Neal was slowly regaining what he had lost—at least, what he had physically lost. That was due, in great part, to Mozzie, who had donned a chef’s hat and taken up a new hobby. The devoted little man had meticulously begun creating tempting and nourishing native Brazilian dishes that helped Neal replace some of the pounds that had melted away during his ordeal. Now the young escapee on the run, who had once looked like an emaciated distortion of himself, was very close to his fighting weight. His skin was bronzed from jogging along the edges of the warm Atlantic and lolling in the sand of nearby Ipanema Beach. Neal seemed content to just be in the moment, and he asked nothing of Mozzie. Since there were no probing questions, Mozzie didn’t feel the need to force any answers on him.

The two friends stayed for over six months in this version of paradise under the watchful eye of “Christ the Redeemer,” the imposing statue overlooking the city. Neal tried his hand at painting the picturesque surroundings that included magnificent Sugarloaf Mountain. He watched the rollerbladers and bikers on the narrow streets in the various barrios and was part of a vast crowd celebrating Carnival in the spring that kicked off the Lenten season.

However, it was the riotous New Year’s Eve festivities on Copacabana Beach that caused disturbing images to flash before his unsuspecting eyes. As an impressive pyrotechnics display exploded in the night sky, Neal experienced a dizzying sense of déjà vu. He took deep breaths, trying not to embarrass himself by passing out like a drunken sailor. He managed to somehow make it home where he staggered into bed. Mozzie just assumed Neal was a bit wasted from the holiday’s traditional free-flowing champagne and decided to let his friend sleep it off. Neal did sleep, but it wasn’t a restful slumber. His recurring dreams were disturbing flashbacks with a horrendous connotation. Early the next morning, he confronted Mozzie from under swollen eyelids.

“Kate’s dead, isn’t she,” he stated rather than asked Mozzie.

“Yes,” was Mozzie’s answer. “She died in a fireball after her plane exploded. I’m sorry, Neal.”

Later that day, Neal informed Mozzie that it was time to move on. And so, they did—this time finding a new safe haven in Santorini, Greece, nestled like a white gem in the peaceful, blue Aegean Sea.

~~~~~~~~~~

With his deeply tanned skin, Neal could pass for a native living on this island in an archipelago that ringed an ancient volcanic caldera. The locals liked to tell tales that depicted the vast circular lagoon as the spot where the lost city of Atlantis had once flourished in antiquity. Just like any good story, this one had intrigue and tragedy attached. Mankind being what it was, the ancient people of Atlantis did not value the good life they had. Greed and corrupt power struggles became the norm. Eventually, Zeus, the omnipotent head of the Greek pantheon of mythological gods, doled out his punishment. In one violent surge, it was all gone—the people and the memory were swallowed up by the sea.

When Neal heard versions of this being related to the multitude of foreign tourists, he thought it was appropriate to his own situation. Once in the distant past, he had a good life full of wealth and prosperity and purpose. He had loved, and he had been loved. Did he, like the olden citizens of Atlantis, clamor for more and more until pride and hubris ultimately overshadowed any humility? Was he punished for his sins by a vengeful god in a sudden raging inferno that erased the memories of his previous existence?

Neal endured the torment of not knowing. He took each day as it came. He sketched scenes of weather-beaten fishermen, both old and young, as they pulled their nets from the sea. He sat, shoulder to shoulder, with Mozzie in neighborhood bars with the locals chugging potent glasses of ouzo. He climbed the steep hills to streets lined with vendors hawking silver necklaces and bracelets. Now handsomely muscular and fit, he gleaned his share of admiring glances, but never sought to follow through on the unspoken invitations. Each night, he would eventually return to his solitary bed in the white-washed villa on the side of the mountain. It was there that he dealt with an almost constant kaleidoscope of fragmented dreams.

Sometimes, he could almost feel the curves and the heat from a faceless lover. Usually, the body next to him was soft and inviting, and he’d let dream fingers make their way across luscious breasts and flaring hips. He would awaken the next morning with telltale stains on the sheets. However, Neal was bewildered when a different phantom sometimes forced its way into some of his nightly romps. This insistent intruder’s physique was hard and unyielding as he hovered over Neal. These dreams, or rather disturbing visions, had the young man bolting awake and drawing in gulps of air.

Enacting a repeat performance from several months before, Neal confronted Mozzie once again on a sunny morning.

“Alex Hunter lives on one of these little Greek islands, doesn’t she, Moz?”

“That’s the rumor,” Mozzie answered vaguely. He realized that Neal was slowly peeling away the past ten years like layers of an onion. Mozzie wasn’t sure if he was happy about that. It might mean that he would lose Neal forever.

So, yet another unexpected catalyst set them on the path to finding a new welcoming retreat from reality. This time, it was Paris, France, in all its splendor.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt so at home in this place, like being enfolded in the familiar arms of an old friend. He found himself reveling in every aspect of the glorious “City of Light,” deeply steeped in history alongside the banks of the slowly meandering Seine. He relished everything, from its classic architecture and its ornate wrought-iron street lamps that lined scenic promenades, to the bohemian air of Montmartre behind the massive Basilique du Sacré-Cœur. That little piece of the world had been the epicenter during the Belle Epoque when esteemed painters like Modigliani, Monet, Renoir, Lautrec, Picasso, and van Gough had labored over their easels. Now the masterpieces created by those talented genius visionaries had to be viewed in renowned galleries such as the Louvre, the Musée de l'Orangerie, or the Musée d'Orsay.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Tempted?” Mozzie asked under his breath one afternoon as he and Neal stood looking at Vincent van Gough’s oil painting entitled, “ _Starry Night Over the Rhône,”_ which was permanently on display at one of those establishments.

Neal cocked his head and gave it some thought. “I like the deep, warm colors of the various shades of blues that he used. There is just a hint of intrusiveness by the garish reflection of yellow gas jets in the water. But Van Gough was a pretty sneaky dude. He almost makes the viewer overlook the two figures in the foreground. I think they are lovers, but then, that’s just my opinion.”

“You’re deflecting, Neal,” Mozzie challenged. “I was inquiring if you were tempted to steal it,” he clarified.

“Not really, Moz,” Neal finally answered. “I appreciate seeing and enjoying something like this, but I don’t feel a greed-driven desire to own it myself.”

When Mozzie seemed to deflate a little under Neal’s scrutiny, the young man tried to make light of his admission and tease his friend just a bit.

“Now, if you’re willing to take a little side trip to the National Gallery in Oslo, Moz, ‘ _The Scream’_ by Edvard Munch might be more appropriate for me to hang over my mantle.”

Mozzie, bless his weird little heart, possessed the gift of total recall. Everything that he had ever seen, read, or heard was indelibly imprinted on some tucked-away rugae in his brain. Thus, Neal was not surprised when Mozzie began quoting a paragraph from Munch’s diary that the artist had penned in 1892 after the painting’s creation.

_“I was walking along the road with two friends – the sun was setting – suddenly the sky turned blood red – I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence – there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city – my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety – and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.”_

Neal turned to his companion with a sad expression, all teasing forgotten. “Sometimes, that’s exactly how I feel, Mozzie, like I’m lost and alone and being engulfed in a miasma of blood red that is fraught with danger. It makes me want to scream and run but I can’t move.”

Mozzie smiled sadly. “So, mon frère, let us agree on something. That is one painting we will most definitely ignore,” he said quietly as he moved ahead in the Paris gallery.

The brief exchange just underscored that Neal was still grappling with psychological demons, and Mozzie didn’t know how to help make it better. The man with no memory was still mired down in a limbo that was preventing his life from coalescing into a definite shape with a past history. Once upon a time, Mozzie had harbored the hope that Neal wouldn’t remember that he had given up his life of crime and settled for staid normalcy. If Neal’s memories remained elusive, then Mozzie and his young unaware protégé could resume their true destiny, and it would be just as it had been. Now, feelings of guilt washed over Neal’s constant companion. That was his version of the dream, but maybe it wasn’t Neal’s anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal, in any rendition of his past life, had been a people person. That was still true. He loved rubbing elbows with individuals from every walk of life. That included struggling young painters sitting on the cobblestones in Montmartre as well as the beautifully turned out, prosperous patrons of the ballet and the opera. Sometimes, Mozzie accompanied him to one gala or another, but Neal had no qualms about attending functions on his own. Whether he was sporting form-fitting jeans or decked out in sleek, fashionably tailored evening dress, he was never in need of companionship for very long. He could converse with the citizenry in their native tongue quite fluently, and was an amiable, engaging, and witty conversationalist. That is how he met Margot and her brother, Emile.

The siblings were the progeny of the old, established French Chennault dynasty, and they were ensconced in a box beside Neal and Mozzie at the massive 2700 seat Opéra Bastille. An overture for the obscure opera, “ _Il turco in Italia,”_ a two-act work by Rossini, had just begun when Margot looked over at Neal and smiled coquettishly. Mozzie was oblivious to the flirting gesture and felt a bit ambushed when the sister and brother accosted him and Neal in the lobby during the intermission.

“How are you enjoying the performance tonight, Monsieur? Unfortunately, I cannot address you by your name since we have not yet been introduced.” Margot said playfully.

Neal gave a gallant little bow and took hold of her small hand.

“Well, we certainly must remedy that state of affairs,” Neal said pleasantly as he brought his current alias to mind. “Marc Devereaux, at your service, Madame, and this is my very good friend, Bertrand Drummond.”

Margot was a stunning blond, and her brother, Emile, was tall and ruggedly handsome. His grip was warm and firm when he shook Neal’s hand, lingering for perhaps a few seconds too long. The con man gave him a speculative glance and smiled. He thought that he was getting a certain vibe from the guy but didn’t yet trust his instincts enough to put any money on his hunch.

Mozzie, however, was distinctly uncomfortable. If truth be told, he was a bit xenophobic, and meeting new people for the first time was hard for him. To cover his nervousness, he began babbling about the opera, providing a blow by blow description that included gypsies and Turks and a series of misconnections by two erstwhile lovers. The Chennaults’ eyes were beginning to glaze over when the lights flickered indicating that the second act was about to commence.

After the opera concluded with all the characters where they should be enjoying a happy ending, the Chennaults invited Neal and Mozzie to join them for a nightcap. Mozzie immediately begged off and claimed that he was tired, but Neal went along with them to a quiet little bistro.

“Your accent is flawless,” Margot complimented Neal, “but I don’t believe you are a native speaker. Where is home for you?”

Neal smiled coyly as he answered, “I’m really a vagabond who travels the world, and anywhere that I temporarily reside becomes home for me.”

“Pardon my unforgivable boldness, but are you and Bertrand a couple?” she asked innocently.

Now Neal gave an authentic, wide smile as he reassured her. “He and I are very good friends, but most definitely not friends with benefits.”

“Well, I, for one, am certainly glad to hear that,” Emile chimed in, and now Neal’s suspicions were confirmed.


	7. Chapter 7

Over the next several months, Neal became well acquainted with both Margot and Emile, and they each earned his deep respect. The immensely wealthy siblings were not just members of the idly rich who lived a frivolous lifestyle courtesy of huge trust funds. They were integral figures in their grandfather’s long-standing and respected business empire, and they took their responsibilities very seriously.

The Chennault Corporation was really a worldwide conglomerate of the best and brightest scientific minds who developed and tested new drugs for every conceivable malady that plagued mankind. The professional model of excellence was constantly researching and developing vaccines and possible biologic panaceas for almost everything from diabetes to AIDS, and the company was awarded huge monetary grants from countries across the map. A most impressive fact was that they made their medications available to everyone regardless of a patient’s monetary circumstances.

Margot spent most of her time in Brussels, Belgium overseeing the statistics on various drug trials being conducted there. That is where she had met the man of her dreams who was now her fiancé. Her wedding was to take place in the spring at the family’s mansion in the Loire Valley.

Emile was also a globetrotter, traveling through Europe, Scandinavia, and the Orient. He was the human face of the company. An engaging and dynamic advance man, he addressed austere groups of brilliant scientists in those various foreign countries, throwing down a challenge for them to find a cure for the latest medical threat.

Neal enjoyed a good deal of his free time with Emile when the busy blond man was in Paris. Although erudite as well as wealthy, the Frenchman was charming but never condescending. If anything, he was humble and self-deprecating and talked little about himself or his accomplishments.

As the days passed, Emile had come to value his friendship with the man he knew as “Marc Devereaux.” He wanted to know that person better, but the handsome dark-haired man was a mystery, and understanding him was like trying to hold a wisp of smoke in your hand.

Finally, one afternoon as the two sat sipping demitasse cups of strong French coffee under the striped awning of a bistro, Emile felt brave enough to try ferreting out some of the details surrounding this puzzle of a man.

 “So, my valued friend,” Emile asked with an easy smile, “how do you occupy yourself when you’re not frequenting the Louvre, or the opera, or playing chess with me? Surely you have some aspirations and depths that you haven’t yet mentioned. Tell me who you really are beneath your handsome façade.”

Neal returned the smile. “I suppose that I’m still trying to find the real me, Emile. I know that sounds like a lame answer, and I apologize for being obscure. Truthfully, it seems as if parts of my life are elusive at the moment, and putting the pieces together is a struggle.”

“Ah,” Emile sighed, “but do we ever truly know ourselves, mon ami? Aren’t we all a work in progress as we keep adding or deleting parts of who we think we are, or who we think we should be? Sometimes, after the struggle, one may emerge from that battle as a completely different person. Perhaps that is not always a bad thing.”

“You are very wise, Emile,” Neal said almost wistfully. “I applaud your perceptive intellect and your candor. I suppose that I’m still that work in progress that you mentioned.”

“At the risk of sounding arrogantly immodest,” the Frenchman said softly, “I think that I am also a bit insightful, and I sense that beneath your beautiful smile there is a great sadness. Oui?”

Neal just shrugged his shoulders and wondered if he had lost his con man touch and become an open book.

“Have you ever loved someone, Marc?” Emile probed.

“Yes,” Neal admitted softly, “but she died a violent death a long time ago.”

“Do you still mourn for her?” Emile asked gently. “Perhaps, it is yourself whom you mourn because you are afraid to love again. Since her sad passing, have you ever allowed yourself to feel that deep emotion for another person?”

“I’m not sure,” Neal said hesitantly, suddenly remembering vague dreams of a broad-shouldered man in his bed at night and the arousal that accompanied his appearance.

“I think that you do possess the answer to that question, Marc,” Emile insisted. “Although you believe that your brain doesn’t have that information, your heart knows the truth. You must listen because it will never deceive you. Your heart sees with a clarity and perception that is much keener than those beautiful blue eyes of yours.”

Neal’s face must have taken on a vulnerable expression, because Emile reached out to cover Neal’s suddenly cold hand with his own warm one.

“It would be so easy to love you, mon ami,” Emile whispered. “I could try to make you happy and whole again. However, I do not think that is our destiny because you would never be tempted to let me in. Someone is already in your heart, and there is no room for another. Whoever that person is, they are very fortunate. I think that when you love, Marc, it is with a great intensity. Put the pieces back together again, dear one, and take the risk of letting that someone love you just as fervently as you love them.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Emile’s profound words about love were like a lynchpin for a confused and lost Neal. Now, those disconcerting dreams were occurring nightly, and Neal’s visceral response to them was overwhelming. He felt himself being fondled and kissed, and experienced a deep fulfillment after an unknown male entity molded himself to Neal’s back and afforded him the ultimate pleasure. However, try as he might, Neal’s mind would not reveal the details of the man’s face. His countenance was always just vaguely out of reach, hidden in the eerie dream mists.

Then one evening, after he and Mozzie had done justice to an expensive bottle of a vintage 1972 Saint Emilion Bordeaux, there was a breakthrough. Perhaps the wine had provided the fulcrum that breached Neal psychological barriers, or maybe it was his heart that had finally been brave and bold enough to override the resistance. That night, Neal heard a familiar voice say these words over and over.

_“If you love somebody, sometimes you have to let them go.”_

_~~~~~~~~~~_

Neal slept later than usual that morning, perhaps because he was finally at peace. Mozzie was in the kitchen of the light and airy apartment attempting to whip up a soufflé. Lately, he had enrolled in a French Cordon Bleu cooking course, and now, instead of a metaphorical toque, he wore a real one as well as a white chef’s tunic. As yet, creating the perfect soufflé had eluded him, so he and Neal ate lots on flat ones as the little man doggedly practiced.

“Coffee’s in the French press, mon frère,” Mozzie said absently as he continued to diligently whip a multitude of egg whites in a deep bowl.

“Moz, I’m going back to New York. I have to see Peter,” Neal announced without preamble.

Mozzie looked up suddenly with a question in his eyes. Then, seeing the truth, he carefully put down his wire whisk and perched on a kitchen stool.

“I take it that the patchwork of your past life has now been joined together into one piece,” he said softly.

“Pretty much—yeah,” Neal answered with a shrug.

“Well,” Mozzie began with a sigh, “I guess that I should say that I’m happy that you now have the whole picture. But, Neal, there was a lot of angst and agony during those ten years, and now that you remember, you’re going to feel every last incidence of hurt, loss, and betrayal all over again. Somehow, that doesn’t seem right or fair.”

“It’s okay, Moz. I needed to be forewarned and prepared so that I can embrace that life once again,” Neal replied softly.

“But the life that you remember and want again—it isn’t the same anymore, Neal. Surely, you realize that fact. You escaped from the Feds over a year and a half ago. Nevertheless, you are still a wanted man, and definitely not in a kind nor gentle way. The evil government drones aren’t all about warm forgiveness, and they never forget. I seriously doubt that Peter Burke can mitigate any of what happened when you woke up from your coma, and he can’t just magically make everything disappear. You can’t rewind and start over again.”

“It’s something that I have to do, Moz,” Neal pleaded. “I hurt Peter in the worst way, and now I’ve hurt you, too. I am so very sorry. You’ve always been my best friend—always there for me through thick and thin. I can never repay you for that unselfish devotion. I love you, man, just not in the same way that I love Peter.”

Mozzie nodded sadly as he seemed to accept the inevitable. “‘I’ll see this debacle through with you, mon frère, just like always.”

“No, Mozzie,” Neal said forcefully. “For once, think about yourself and what you want. Pursue your own dreams. You should be happy and have a good life. Raid our Cayman Island cache and buy yourself a vineyard in the French countryside or a five-star restaurant here in Paris. You deserve something better than to continually watch me self-destruct. That’s definitely not my wish for someone who is like a brother to me.”

“But you may need my help, Neal,” Mozzie wheedled.

“It’s time for me to stand on my own two feet,” Neal admitted. “I’ve been hiding both physically and mentally for far too long. I’ve also been an albatross around your neck, and that makes me feel ashamed. I’ll go alone to the States, and somehow, someway, you’ll hear about what happens in New York. I’m sure that June will keep you in the loop. Maybe I’m wrong, but I think that razor-sharp lady knows the score. Are you going to tell me that you haven’t kept in contact with her since we left New York?”

“Well, she worries,” Mozzie replied sheepishly.

Neal just grinned as he took out his cell phone to call the Air France desk. “Marc Devereaux” needed to make a transatlantic reservation on a jumbo jet departing from Orly bound for JFK.

~~~~~~~~~~

A year and a half ago, Peter had taken a hit after Neal and Mozzie’s defection. He was put on indefinite leave at the Bureau until the muckety-mucks in Justice could figure out an appropriate punishment for a crime they couldn’t prove. They strongly believed that Peter had colluded with Neal, thus perpetrating his clandestine escape from a traumatic brain injury rehab hospital. His excuse that the key to the tracking anklet had been mysteriously stolen right out of his pocket stunk like yesterday’s fish. It certainly didn’t help that Neal’s picture up on the “Most Wanted” wall mocked them on a daily basis. The FBI didn’t have a clue to his whereabouts and that stuck in their craws.

After a time, judgment was levied. It was truly an embarrassing fall from grace for someone who had dedicated their whole career to the Agency. Suddenly, Peter’s General Schedule, better known as a GS pay scale level, plummeted from a GS 10 to a GS 2. He would no longer be an agent working in the field or even on the 21st floor of the FBI building. The big bosses buried him levels below in the basement. He now had just a claustrophobic little cubicle behind a door marked _“Business Analysis & Administration.”_ Day after weary day, Peter dealt with customer-focused and departmental issues in finance, accounting, fiscal planning, reporting, and budgeting. It was mind-numbing instead of stimulating, and the work day seemed to have many more than just eight hours.

Peter supposed that it could have been much worse. They could have reassigned him to some remote outpost in Montana or North Dakota. Then he would have been forced to sell his home and move far away from the memories. Peter knew that it was a ridiculous pipedream, but he couldn’t let go of the fantasy that some day Neal would come back to New York City to find him.

It was after another tedious day at the office that his phone rang as he waited for his tv dinner to heat in the small toaster oven.

“Pee-tuh,” a well-modulated and cultured voice addressed him after he answered. “I hope that I’m not calling at an inconvenient time,” a matronly-sounding female said softly.

“June?” Peter stuttered, “Is that you?”

“Of course, Agent Wingtips,” she responded playfully. “How have you been faring, my dear? It’s been ages since I’ve either seen or spoken with you.”

“Um, yes, it has been awhile,” Peter agreed without addressing his ongoing state of disgrace and exile.

There was dead air for a few beats until June graciously filled the void.

“Pee-tuh, I was wondering if perhaps you may have some free time to stop by my home tonight or tomorrow. Up until now, I have left Neal’s loft exactly as it was on the last day that he was here. I suppose that I’m just a sentimental, maudlin old fool. However, I now think that it is time for me to move on.

I intend to clean the space out, little by little, and I will most likely donate his things to charity. I know that the two of you were close. I was just wondering if there is anything that you might want before I do that—perhaps you may even discover something personal up there that you desire.”

Whatever Peter had been expecting, it wasn’t this, but he quickly latched onto June’s invitation.

“I can be there in an hour, if it’s not too late for you,” Peter said hesitantly.

“Young man,” June advised, “when you get to be my age, sleep is an elusive thing. I sometimes walk these halls like a specter in the dead of night. Come along whenever you can, dear. I’ll keep the porch light on for you.”


	8. Chapter 8

June, with her little pug tucked in her arms, opened the door, herself, after Peter rang the melodious door chimes.

“I’m sure you remember the way and don’t need an escort,” she said as she fluttered an airy wave towards the stairs. “The door is unlocked. Just go right on in, have a look around, and see if you can find something that may capture your interest.”

It was a familiar trek up three flights. Peter remembered once remarking to Neal that June should install an elevator. The older man also remembered so many other small comments and conversations from those years. Sometimes, he became choked up when he recalled their silly arguments and spats. But, thankfully, they somehow got through them, even though both men could be pigheaded and stubborn at times. Peter actually smiled when he visualized that obstinate and obnoxious person in the rehab hospital. Neal had been Neal, even if he couldn’t remember their dynamic.

Peter was only slightly winded when he finally reached the top landing. Apparently, June had left a lamp burning in the loft so that its soft glow outlined the door edges. Peter put his hand on the knob, then turned and pushed. Suddenly his breath left him in a whoosh. Neal—beautiful and healthy-looking Neal—was standing before him with a soft smile on his face.

“Hello, Peter,” he murmured.

When the dumbfounded man found his voice, he asked tentatively, “Are you sure that you don’t mean ‘Hello, Agent Burke?’”

“Maybe this will answer your question,” Neal said softly as he enfolded Peter in a hug and then brought his lips to Peter’s in a deep kiss.

“Hello, Neal,” Peter finally replied after the kiss ended and his composure started to crumble. “You’ve come back to me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There was so much each man wanted to know or say about the last year and a half. They talked over each other and then laughed and started again.

“When did you remember, Neal?” Peter wanted to know.

The young man grimaced. “It didn’t come back all at once, Peter. It seemed as if each place that I went eventually gave me a key to unlock a small part. It wasn’t until a few days ago in Paris that your role solidified, and the last puzzle piece completed the picture. I caught the next plane to New York.”

“Being back here is dangerous for you, Neal. You’re still on the ‘Most Wanted’ list, just maybe a little farther down since some rampant serial killers now get top billing. Nonetheless, if you do get caught, you’ll be considered a three-time offender and go away for a very long time. We can’t let that happen.”

Neal smiled. “I’m safe enough for now, Peter. This is the last place they would ever think to look for me. Besides, this old mansion was built by Byron Ellington, who was as sly as they come. It was a speakeasy back in his day, so he installed cameras, secret passages, tunnels, and even hidey-hole rooms throughout the three floors. Right now, we’re as snug as two bugs in a rug. But enough about me, Peter, tell me how bad I left things for you at the Bureau.”

“Let’s not talk about that now,” Peter pleaded. “Maybe there’s more pressing things on the agenda.”

“Would you be willing to spend the night?” Neal asked longingly.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Peter grinned as he led Neal by the hand over to that massive old tiger oak bed with its silk sheets. He noticed that the “hope-springs-eternal” young man had a fresh tube of lube and a strip of condoms on the nightstand.

“Looks like you were pretty sure of yourself, Buddy. Am I that easy and predictable?” Peter said drolly.

“I’m just a Boy Scout, Peter, and believe in being prepared,” Neal laughed.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two reunited and grateful people spent the night revisiting familiar territory. Neither had forgotten the moves or the rhythms that they knew would ultimately blossom into sublime pleasure. Each remembered the triggers and the hot buttons, and both had an instinct for when the moment was right to push the other over the edge into blissful oblivion. These earnest lovers, separated for so long, exalted in this temporary interlude and let the real world fade away. For just a few short hours they existed in the moment, but they knew harsh reality lurked in the morning.

The dawn was heralded by the slanting rays of a rising sun through the loft’s glass patio doors. Peter fondly gazed at the man beside him and probed through half-lidded eyes.

“So, enlighten me, Neal. Where have you been for the last eighteen months?”

“Oh, here and there,” the young man teased, “but Moz and I were careful not to leave a footprint. Now, stop with the questions about my travels so that I can ask a few questions of my own. Tell me how you _really_ are, Peter. You deftly managed to sidestep that issue earlier.”

Peter sighed and began to admit the truth of his situation. “The guys at Justice weren’t happy, of course, but they had no ammunition to stand me up before a firing squad. Instead, they inflicted their vengeance a little more insidiously. I am no longer a field agent. Since I have a degree in accounting as well as criminal justice, they plunked me down in a stuffy little office in the bowels of the Federal building so that I can spend the day putting little check marks on budget entries. I’m just one of the anonymous drones in a windowless cubicle. I punch a time clock, brown-bag deviled ham sandwiches for lunch, and then I leave all that exciting glitz and glamour behind at 5 PM on the dot.”

“Well, that sounds boring,” Neal remarked.

“Extremely,” Peter agreed, “but I suppose it could be a lot worse.”

Neal snorted, “That’s like being told you have an incurable illness, but then rationalizing that tragedy by saying, ‘Well, since I’m not dead yet, it could be a lot worse.’ Peter, it seems as if you’re dying by degrees. How much longer can you last ‘living’ like this?”

Peter sighed. “Neal, I’ve spent my whole life in government service. I’m no longer young, and I neither have the time nor the initiative to start over. I can retire in a little over ten years. I’ll take my pension and put some distance between me and the government. I still own the title to my parents’ little house in Upstate New York. My Dad was in construction and I learned a lot from him about building when I lived at home. Maybe I’ll follow in his footsteps and start my own business—something small that I can handle myself. Being my own boss sounds like heaven right now.”

“A decade is a long time, Peter. Believe me—I can personally attest to that fact,” Neal remarked wryly as he got out of bed and went over to the kitchen. He began pulling breakfast supplies out of the refrigerator that was fully stocked thanks to his foresighted landlady.

“We need to get you fortified with a hearty breakfast before you’re forced to return to the federal gulag for your daily stint of slave labor. June didn’t buy that sugary kids’ cereal that you favor, so you’ll have to settle for scrambled eggs and bacon. Since Mozzie has had his difficulties with soufflés lately, I’ve grown fond of eating a lot of meals that resemble omelets.”

“So, Mozzie’s into cooking,” Peter mused as he sat at the table. “What have you been into, Neal?”

“Artwork at the Louvre,” Neal deadpanned.

When Peter sputtered and started to choke on a piece of toast, Neal laughed delightedly.

“It’s not what you think, Mr. FBI man. I’m actually putting in legitimate long hours in my own little dusty space. You’re looking at the latest art restorer hired by the Louvre.”

Peter quirked an eyebrow and asked hesitantly, “Are you restoring masterpieces and _returning_ them to their rightful places, Neal, or are perfect copies being hung back up on gallery walls?”

“Relax, worry wort,” Neal chuckled. “Although Mozzie isn’t thrilled about it, I _am_ staying on the straight and narrow.”

~~~~~~~~~~

All too soon, the hands on the clock told them that their time together was about to come to an end. Poignant glances told a story that needed no words, but they couldn’t simply part ways and go in different directions without saying something, no matter how stilted and filled with sorrow.

“Neal,” Peter began softly, “you came back to me at the risk of your freedom. You wanted to let me know that you were okay. Thank you for that because the not knowing was slowly killing me. And last night was …. well, last night was beyond wonderful. Since I can no longer have you in my life, it will at least help me get through the emptiness.”

Neal was looking down as he spoke, perhaps not trusting his self-control if he chanced a glance into Peter’s eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Peter. It seems like I’ve been saying that a lot lately to the people that I love. Eighteen months ago, my misfortune seemed to commandeer Mozzie’s life and it ruined yours. It makes me feel guilty that there are persons who really care that much about a former con man and a thief. I wish that I could ‘fix’ this, but I don’t know how. In fact, I don’t even have the proper words to say ‘goodbye.’”

Peter had a sad little smile on his face. “Do you remember the last words that I said to you in your hospital room, Neal?”

Now a distressed young man let the tears that shimmered in his blue eyes cascade down his cheeks. “Of course, I do, Peter. Those words have been burned into my soul,” he murmured as he repeated the sentiment.

_“If you love somebody, sometimes you have to let them go.”_

_~~~~~~~~~~_

It was a Monday in a month with a national holiday, so the federal government had expediently tacked it onto a weekend so that their employees had three days of freedom to enjoy their own lives. It was also the 47th day since Neal had disappeared from Peter’s life once again. The sad and forlorn man had been keeping track. Peter knew there were chores around his townhouse that needed to be done, but he didn’t seem to have the energy to take them on. He simply puttered around accomplishing nothing.

In the early afternoon, someone rang his doorbell. When a sweats-clad Peter opened it, he found a tall, blond man in a sharply cut three-piece suit that looked very continental in style. That suspicion was confirmed when the gentleman spoke with a distinctive French accent.

“Mr. Burke,” he said with a pleasant smile, “my name is Emile Chennault. Of course, we have never become acquainted, but a mutual friend has suggested that I pay you a visit. Perhaps you would afford me a few moments of your time so that I can explain the reason for this imposition of appearing on your doorstep without warning.”

Peter was intrigued and decided out of curiosity to allow this very polite and handsome man with an expensive leather briefcase into his home. After Chennault had seated himself on the couch across from Peter, he extricated a packet of papers from his Louie Vuitton attaché case and placed them on the coffee table.

“Mr. Burke, my family has the honor of owning a very large global Fortune 500 company with offices and laboratories in numerous cities abroad. Our business revolves around medical issues and the treatment of various diseases and genetic conditions. I have taken the liberty of including our profile in this packet. It includes Chennault’s mission statement, our holdings, our financial profit and loss statements from the last five years, and reports from Standard & Poor’s as well as Moody’s, to name just a few credit establishments. I have even been so gauche as to include citations and accolades that laud our revolutionary breakthroughs and contributions from some very distinguished institutions around the world.

Now, I sincerely hope that you will peruse the information at your leisure and conduct your own research about us. I would expect nothing less from a prudent and intelligent person.”

“Okay…” Peter drawled, still a bit at sea about this out-of-the-blue development.

Chennault smiled again and reached once more into his sleek briefcase. Another tidy packet of papers joined the first.

“It is also my understanding from our mutual friend that you have a background in finance and accounting. The Chennault Corporation is always in need of well-qualified and dedicated professional people in that arena. I beg your indulgence, but my researchers did take the liberty of delving into your background. Their comprehensive reports underscored the dedication that you bring to your work.”

Peter didn’t know whether to be outraged by this intrusion into his life or astounded by the perceptions of some nosy investigators. The blond man didn’t seem to notice Peter’s conflicted state, or if he did, he simply ignored it.

“This second packet,” the visitor continued, “also contains an invitation from the Chennault Corporation to join our family. We can assure you that the work will be stimulating, engrossing, and challenging. We offer very competitive salaries as well as incentive bonuses and a stipend to help defray the cost of relocating. Of course, our medical coverage is superb. If you are agreeable, your employment would start with a six-month orientation to enable you to familiarize yourself with our way of doing things. When you tell us that you feel sufficiently prepared, you would be afforded the opportunity to head your own office in the city of your choice. Our friend has told me that you have an affinity for ancient Viking lore. Perhaps a placement in Norway or Denmark might be to your liking.”

Peter sat back and tried to catch his breath. Then a tiny grin found its way to his lips as he asked hopefully, “Since our mutual ‘friend’ now resides in Paris, do you think there could be room for me there?”

Chennault now displayed his own wide smile that looked sincere and satisfied. His answer was short and sweet.

_“Voilà—it is done!”_


End file.
